I'm Going Home...

 

This burden weighs me down. These pressures were once so light and the clear of the sky on the barren open road once cleared my mind. It is time to give my soul to the wind that carries through my hair and see where it takes me.

I dare think, to look out over that place, where the trees obstruct the view of the valley in the most imperfect manner. The red soil and dry air. It's a place that shares my secret, it whispers hardship, brutality and strength. It signifies independence and pride as it transforms and grows with each struggle. It takes new shape and can engulf the foreign like it was once natural. I remember when I would lie on the clifftop looking through the tree tops into the indigo sky. The clouds dusted the sky like an icing sugar coating. I long to be back in that rugged place.

Don't you ever experience that moment when you look out to the horizon and you just want to be out there? To be able to drift into the unknown and leave everyone in your wake? The sky was my soulful place. It represented a serendipitous palace, where everything from peace to darkness could feed your heart flower. The sky was the calm between my creating and my loving. 

He always said to me, if art wasn't better than sex, than it wasn't going to work.

Art is my drug. It numbs me. It has me hooked like a raging addict. The way I look out onto the world through painting, sculpture and idiosyncratic installations makes me youthful again. When I go to that place, where my world becomes a harp that I don't yet know how to play, but am sure is the instrument for which magic can be held, the world whistles through my soul with no memory. You can pick apart the pieces of my heart and peer straight through, yet there is no space for anyone else to walk in or occupy my mind.